The missing years of Sherlock Holmes
by Lestrende
Summary: It has been some time since Sherlock plunged to his "death" at st Barts. Now, he has picked up his life and is ruling out Moriarty's network. The story starts in Istanbul, Turkey. Sherlock is solving cases again, and all seems good. But how well does he handle John's absence? And will he succeed in destroying all the threads from Moriarty's network? -to Tumblr user littlefavour


"Mr Henslow, you are accused and have been found guilty of theft, blackmail and the attempted murder of Mrs Everson. You have been sentenced to fifteen years of prison confinement, of which two are suspendable. You are also required to repay the sum of one million British pounds to Mrs Everson. The court has made the unanimous decision to grant you three days' liberty. You will be called for after then, and you will be taken to the Silivri Penitentiaries Campus, located in Istanbul, you make an attempt on fleeing, your sentenced will be prolonged with six months. Case closed."

A loud noise emerged from the court when everyone made their way to the exit. The judge, jury and lawyers gathered to discuss the case further while the witnesses tried their best to zigzag their way through the crowd. Minutes later the room was empty and everyone already outside, huddled under the pent because of the heavy storm rushing through the city. It was January, and for this time of year, it was singularly warm. Two men in long overcoats emerged from the main entrance. One of them was carrying a large sports bag. He was in his middle forties, with short grey hair already turning white. He dug a cigarette out of his pocket as he walked towards his car. The other man followed him, chatting about sports and women as if nothing had happened that day. He was in his late twenties, with shortishdark brown hair and a colourful scarf carefully wrapped around his slender neck. They were chatting in Turkish. There was a short beep coming from the car as they both opened the doors, the grey-haired one dumping the bag in the boot and stepping behind the wheel.

They sat in the car for a while, watching, waiting, listening to any sign that they might be alone. After a few minutes they drove away. The car went into a narrow alleyway, where both men emerged, looked around, and approached one another. The grey-haired older man seemed to hesitate, and the brown-haired young man saw this. He reassured him and grabbed his hand. They both stood in silence, watching their hands explore the elasticity of the muscles in their fingers, twirling into one another then letting go again. They shared a look of relief and both men laughed. The grey-haired man stopped, looked at the other man and pulled him closer. They lingered on each other's lips for a full minute, and then they kissed with a feverish passion, as if they had waited years for this moment. They pulled in closer, leaving next to no space between them. Their hands moved very quickly, cheeks, shoulders, arms, sides, waist, until both their arms found a comfortable spot on each other's backs.  
After a while they pulled away from each other, again lingering on their lips. After a while, the grey-haired man whispered: "all right. Let's go deliver the package."

Sherlock watched the court room empty itself, sitting on his own at the row furthest away from the jury. This had been a good one, he thought as the people who sat in these chairs not a minute ago were now rushing to return to their normal, boring, mundane lives. Henslow had been found guilty of everything he was accused of, with help from Sherlock, of course, but he failed to convince the DI in charge of the affaire Henslow was having with his secretary and his butcher. Simultaneously. Apparently, the loosened lower button of the secretary's jacket and the creases on the butcher's elbow weren't enough for that. Well, man cannot have everything he desires, for that renders him almighty.

He turned towards the exit. Half of the people were gone by now. He applauded himself mentally. Someone has to do it. Because clearly, he cannot go back to John-  
he cut himself off this train of thought. That is not something I should be thinking about right now, he said to himself. Stating facts does nothing but waste time one can inevitably use on more interesting subjects. He had just finished the case of the most powerful man in Eastern Europe, clearly he has otherthings to ponder over. Who the man with the large top hat was, for example. He glanced him over. Creases in the lower part of the hat suggest it previously had a bow attached to it. His trousers fitted barely adequately to his short legs, and his feet were remarkably small. However, he was not fat, or strongly built. The smudge on his elbow was red but had faded by now, leaving a vague burgundy stain. His nose was long and thin, and his eyes a bright green. The jacket he was wearing had several patches on its dark blue velvet surface. There were traces of a flower inside his breast pocket. He walked very slowly towards the door, his back straight and his arms swinging slowly beside him, as is common with walking. His hair was short but it had not been that way for long. His chest was just a tiny bit chubby.

Sherlock had of course figured him out in the second and a half that passed during this deduction. He, Mr Waterson, as Sherlock had observed when the man entered, had until not long ago been Miss Waterson. He had kept some of his clothes out of sentiment, but his top hat was only to emphasize his masculinity. He dressed very masculine already, so he must have had the change because he was already a man in his head. Only this afternoon had he decided to come out to his parents. He had a distracted look upon his face as he made his way through the crowd to his car. Four point six seconds later, he was gone.

Sherlock was alone.

Well, he thought, at least that passed the time. A bit. He left, getting his phone out of his jacket pocket as he stood up. He unlocked it. Contacts. Recents. Valkorn, Vronchev, Vuccherini,Waterson, Watson. Harry, Janet, John. Mobile phone. Call. He pressed the icon on his screen, but slid his thumb away from it after a while. He stood in silence as he saw the name of his best and only friend in black letters on the deafeningly bright screen.

In five seconds, a boatload of ideas passed his mind. He could call and tell him he was sorry but alive. He could call and put on a silly voice as he tried to make John laugh, just to hear the funny sounds he makes when he does. He could leave a voicemail telling him that he's alive without having to talk to him about it. He could send a text saying he's alive and healthy and finished a very exciting case. He could-  
No. He knew very well that his own life, not to mention John's life, would be in very grave danger if word had come out that he was alive. Most of all, he could not bear to see the reaction on the face of his friend as he stood face to face with him after a very, very long wait. He had suffered annoying colleagues, obsessed journalists, all the way down to faces of people whose lives he had ruined when he had so rarely failed, but this one face might just be the actual death of him.

No, he could not contact him. As much as he did want to hear John's voice, look him in the eyes, stand face to face with him, sit in his own chair across from him, solve intriguing cases with him and maybe even convince him to play Cluedo with him again, he could not. Not now. He might come to great harm if Sherlock did decide to phone him or reach him in any way. Reluctantly and with tears taking shape in the corners of his eyes, he tucked away his phone again. He walked towards the exit. He went out, straight out into the pouring rain, adjusted his scarf and wrapped himself in his coat, hugging it tightly.  
Today was not the day to succumb to feelings. He had work to do.


End file.
